Kristina Springer: The Espressologist

Large Nonfat Four-shot Caffe Latte

Cocky sex-deprived butthead guy drink. Expect only the utmost stupidity to come out of his mouth. So-so body, could stand to work out more. Crappy dresser.

Dramatically stares at a woman who comes in with a boob job. He looks like he is going to hurt himself in the contortions he is twisting into ...

"Excuse me," the customer says, stepping up to the counter. I quickly stop scribbling in my notebook and slide it onto the shelf under the espresso machine.

"Sorry about that, sir. How can I help you?" I reply in my most superefficient Wired Joe's barista voice.

"Jane, is it?" he says, reading my name tag and thinking he is ever so personable and charming for calling me by name.

"I'd like a large nonfat four-shot caffe latte." I smile to myself. God, I'm good. It's getting to the point where I can guess most customers' drinks on sight. I grab a large white paper cup, write an NF in the milk box, and a 4 in the shots box, and set the cup down on the gleaming silver table for Sarah, the other barista working the counter, to start making the drink. I type the order into the cash register and look back up.

"That will be four eighty-five," I reply with a fake smile.

"Here's a five," he says. "Keep the change." Cha-ching!

That will so help my college savings fund.

"Thank you, sir. Your order will be up in just a moment." The man heads over to the pick-up counter and positions himself to continue his study of Boob Job woman. Sarah draws the first of the four shots of espresso and dumps it into the waiting cup.

"What are you always writing in that notebook?" she whispers. I glance at her and stick up my index finger, indicating I'll tell her in a minute, after the customer has left the counter. Sarah tops off the espresso with freshly steamed milk and a dollop of foam.

"Large nonfat four-shot caffe latte," she calls out, even though the man is standing two feet away from her. It's just something we have to do. Corporate policy. He briefly breaks his gaze from Boob Job woman to look at Sarah and grab his drink. Do these kinds of guys even know what they look like? The man slinks away from the counter and settles into one of the big comfy blue velvet chairs and continues to stare. Oh geez, he's going to make this woman get up and leave. A few seconds later she does, and he gives her a wink.

"So, what are you writing in there?" Sarah repeats.

"Nothing much. Just some notes. You could say I'm conducting my own field research."

"On what?"

"Well, people. Just people," I say. "Honestly it's nothing. Just something I like to do."

"Is it for school or something?"

Um ... no. One would have to go to school to get assignments, right? I'm a senior at Lincoln High and done with all my core curriculum already. So it's a fluffy schedule for me this semester–we're talking ceramics, study hall, and home ec here. Well, except for the two college-credit courses I'm taking over at Anthony Carter Community College in the afternoons. But I haven't been there lately either–hey, I'm an equal opportunity ditcher. I've already applied to my DC (dream college) and I'm just waiting to hear from early admissions. It's not like I NEED to go to school. Whereas I NEED to work. With no scholarship prospects and no apparent college fund from Mom and Dad, I'll be footing my tuition bill next year. That's another thing: Mom and Dad don't know I've been ditching. And, crossing my fingers, they won't find out. They are both very career-oriented these days and trust me to do the right thing, and I do. Most of the time. And it helps that I've been able to sign my mom's name to school forms since the fifth grade.

"No, it's not for school," I say, purposely not telling Sarah that I haven't actually been to many classes in the last week or so. "Like I said, it's just something I've been doing."

"Well, don't let Derek catch you," she replies. I glance around the store but don't see Derek lingering anywhere.

It's not that I dislike our manager or anything–it's just that he's always mad about something or other. "What's his mood like today–pissy, extra pissy, or über-pissy?"

Sarah laughs. "I'd say just extra pissy."

"Oh fun. Any particular reason?" I ask.

"Todd again," she says, and rolls her eyes. As in Todd Stone, the hottie manager of the Wired Joe's two blocks west of us and Derek's direct competition. Todd's store is continually pulling in higher sales than ours and it just kills Derek. And then he takes it out on us.

"Where is he, anyway?" I ask, surprised he hasn't checked on us yet.

"In the break room scolding Em for something–I'm not sure what," Sarah tells me.

"Ooh. Em is here already? I didn't think she started until four-thirty." I immediately brighten. Em, short for Emily, has been my best friend since the sixth grade, when I farted really loudly in a stall in the girls' bathroom. Two of the popular girls were in there doing their makeup and said, "Ew ... like ... who is in there?" I stupidly answered, "Um ... Jane Turner." They started laughing hysterically and I thought I'd die right there on the spot. Em was also in the bathroom washing her hands and told them, "At least that is temporary–you two smell like butt all the time." The girls responded with one of those "uh! I can't believe you just said that to me" sounds and left the bathroom. I peeked out the crack of the stall door and Em smiled at me in the mirror. We've been inseparable ever since (even though I was known as "Stinky Jane" for the rest of the school year).

"Yeah," Sarah says. "I guess Derek told her to come in early so he could talk to her. She looked a little scared."

"Scared? I doubt it," I disagree. I swear, nothing scares Em. She is the toughest chick I know. But now I'm a little worried. She CANNOT get fired. Working with her every day is one of the perks of the job. That and the free coffee.

"She's been back there awhile," Sarah replies.

"I wonder what they are talking about."

"I'm sure it's nothing bad," I say, more to reassure myself than Sarah.

"You're probably right," she says. "Hey, it's pretty quiet in here." A guy who looks to be in his forties is sitting in the corner of the store reading a James Patterson book and sipping a white chocolate mocha, and a girl, most likely a college student, is at a table working on her laptop and drinking an iced caramel macchiato. "If you don't mind, I'm going to take my break." Sarah pulls out her cell phone and heads for the door.

"Sure, no problem." I turn to the sink and busy myself washing some of the dishes that have stacked up. When I turn around to reach for one of the large cookie trays I see her. The girl at the very top of my "People I Really Hope I Never See Again" list. Oh crap. With a freaking Wired Joe's on every corner in the city, why does SHE have to come into MINE? The glass door flies open and I'm smacked in the face with the cool November breeze.

Okay, calm down. Think fast. Where to hide? Behind the coffee-bean display? No, not enough room. Pull my blue apron over my head? Ick, there are some used coffee grounds smeared in the corner. Oh god, she is walking straight toward me. I'll just crouch down like I'm cleaning the floor and Sarah can help her. I sit fire-drill style behind the counter and wait.

Shoot. Sarah went outside, didn't she?

"Um ... hello?"

Ugh. It's too late; she sees me. Melissa freaking Stillwell. Otherwise known as Meliss the Priss. Okay, so I'm the only one who calls her that. And only behind her back, of course, but that is beside the point. She's here now and I so don't want to talk to her. I pull chunks of my wavy brown hair out of the clip that is restraining it and muss them in front of my eyes, hoping she won't recognize me.